The second footprint appeared ten yards farther up the slope.
Then another.
Gideon Hayes dismounted.
The blood he had been following was no longer scattered across the snow like an injured animal’s trail.
It ran beside those prints.
Human.
He crouched and touched one dark spot with his gloved fingers.
Still tacky beneath the crust of ice.
Recent.
“Damn.”
His horse, Bishop, blew warm breath into the wind.
Gideon tied the reins loosely around a pine branch and followed the tracks on foot.
They climbed toward an abandoned line cabin that had once belonged to a silver prospector named Amos Finch.
Gideon knew the place.
Everyone who hunted the San Juan high country did.
One room.
Stone chimney.
Leaking roof.
Two miles from the nearest usable winter road.
Amos had died nearly eight years earlier.
Nobody sensible stayed there anymore.
Yet smoke was coming from the chimney.
Barely.
A thin gray thread against a white sky.
Gideon approached slowly.
Then stopped.
The cabin door was open.
A woman lay on the floor just inside.
For one terrible second, he thought she was dead.
Then she moved.
One hand dragged weakly toward a hatchet lying near the wall.
Gideon raised both hands.
“Easy.”
Her head lifted.
Dark hair had fallen loose across a face almost colorless from cold.
She looked perhaps twenty-eight.
Maybe thirty.
Her dress was patched repeatedly at the sleeves.
One boot was wrapped with cloth.
Blood had soaked through it.
And in her left hand she held a small kitchen knife.
“Stay back.”
Her voice barely carried.
Gideon stopped immediately.
“I will.”
“Who are you?”
“Gideon Hayes.”
Nothing changed in her expression.
“You expect me to know that?”
“No.”
That seemed to surprise her.
He looked toward the dead fireplace.
No flame.
Only ash.
“Your fire’s out.”
“I noticed.”
“Your foot is bleeding.”
“I noticed that too.”
Despite everything, Gideon almost smiled.
Then the woman tried to stand.
She made it halfway.
Her knees folded.
Gideon moved instinctively.
“Don’t.”
She pointed the knife.
He stopped again.
“I said don’t.”
“All right.”
She sat against the wall breathing hard.
Gideon looked around.
No food visible except half a sack of cornmeal.
Three split logs beside the hearth.
An empty water bucket.
A wool blanket so thin he could see light through it.
He asked:
“How long have you been alone?”
“That is not your concern.”
“Fair.”
“How badly is your foot cut?”
“Also not your concern.”
“Less fair.”
Her eyes narrowed.
Gideon nodded toward the knife.
“You can keep that.”
“I planned to.”
“I have bandages in my saddlebag.”
“No.”
“Food?”
“No.”
“Firewood?”
“No.”
He looked at the dead hearth.
“You appear committed to freezing on principle.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I don’t take favors from strange men.”
“Neither would I.”
“What?”
“People usually remember favors inaccurately.”
That made her look at him differently.
He took off one glove and slowly reached into his coat.
She tightened her grip on the knife.
Gideon removed a small notebook.
“Then we make it business.”
She stared.
“What business?”
“I sell you supplies.”
“With what money?”
“Do you have money?”
“Three dollars and eleven cents.”
“That answers the question.”
He opened the notebook.
“Wood. Bandage cloth. Coffee. Beans. Flour.”
“Not coffee.”
“Why?”
“Expensive.”
“I already have it.”
“So you want to charge me for something you were going to drink anyway?”
“Yes.”
“You’re terrible at charity.”
“I’m trying not to offer charity.”
Silence.
Then, despite herself:
“How much?”
“Two dollars.”
“For all of it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s too low.”
“The beans are old.”
“How old?”
“I’m not certain.”
“Then one dollar seventy-five.”
Gideon stared at her.
“You’re negotiating downward for yourself?”
“I don’t want you telling anyone I survived because Gideon Hayes gifted me half a winter.”
He closed the notebook.
“One dollar seventy-five.”
“Written.”
He tore out a page.
Wrote:
November 27, 1884.
Food, firewood, bandage cloth, coffee, and temporary use of one cooking pot.
Price: $1.75.
No other obligation.
He signed.
Then extended the paper.
The woman read it.
Twice.
“What does ‘no other obligation’ mean?”
“Exactly what it says.”
“Work?”
“No.”
“Marriage?”
Gideon’s head jerked slightly.
“No.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
She studied him another moment.
Then:
“My name is Lydia Mercer.”
“Good.”
She lowered the knife.
Not completely.
Enough.
Gideon retrieved his supplies.
When he returned, Lydia was trying to relight the fire.
Her hands shook too badly to hold the match.
“May I?”
She stared.
Then nodded.
That was the first permission she gave him.
He remembered it.
Gideon started the fire.
Not dramatically.
No miracle flame.
Dry kindling.
Pine shavings.
A little patience.
Then he set a pot of snow near the hearth to melt.
Lydia watched every movement.
When he approached her injured foot, she stiffened.
“I’m not a doctor.”
“Good.”
“Doctor Ames in Silverton is.”
“I’m not going to Silverton.”
“Why?”
She looked toward the door.
“Because someone is waiting for me there.”
Gideon stopped.
“Who?”
Silence.
He did not ask again.
Instead:
“May I look at the cut?”
Lydia hesitated.
Then nodded.
The injury was ugly but straightforward.
A deep slice along the side of her foot, apparently from an axe or sharp metal edge.
Bleeding had slowed.
No obvious fracture.
But Gideon knew enough frontier medicine to know what he did not know.
He washed his hands.
Cleaned around the wound with boiled water after it cooled enough.
Wrapped it without claiming he had solved anything.
“You need a physician.”
“No.”
“You may need stitches.”
“No.”
“Infection could kill you.”
She stared.
“So could going back.”
That was when Gideon stopped treating her refusal as stubbornness.
“All right.”
He sat back.
“Then we find a doctor who comes here.”
Lydia laughed bitterly.
“You think doctors climb mountains in November?”
“For money.”
“I have one dollar thirty-six left after your highway robbery.”
“I’ll pay him.”
Her expression hardened.
“No.”
“Then you can owe him.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because debt is how this started.”
That sentence stayed in the room.
Gideon looked at her.
“What debt?”
Lydia immediately regretted saying it.
He could see that.
So he stood.
“Beans first.”
She blinked.
“You’re not asking?”
“Not yet.”
That surprised her more than any question would have.
They ate in silence.
Lydia took half a bowl.
Then stopped.
“Finish it.”
Gideon said.
“I’m full.”
“No, you’re rationing.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“You don’t know me.”
“No.”
“But I know what somebody looks like when they count tomorrow’s meals while eating today’s.”
She stared at the bowl.
Then slowly finished.
Afterward, Gideon rode six miles down the mountain to a logging camp and sent a man toward Silverton with a note for Doctor Ames.
He returned before dark.
Lydia was asleep beside the fire.
Knife still in her hand.
He slept outside the cabin beneath the lean-to.
Not because he wanted to prove himself noble.
Because there was one room.
And Lydia had made it clear that a locked door between them mattered.
The lean-to had no door.
So he hung a canvas sheet.
Close enough.
Doctor Ames arrived the following afternoon, furious at the weather and more furious at Gideon.
“You told me someone was dying.”
“I said someone could.”
“That is everyone.”
“Useful medical principle.”
Ames ignored him.
He examined Lydia privately while Gideon waited outside.
The wound required cleaning and several stitches.
No major tendon injury.
No obvious frostbite requiring amputation.
But she was malnourished, dehydrated, and exhausted.
When Ames emerged, he said:
“She needs warmth, food, and rest.”
“She has those.”
“For today.”
Gideon looked toward the cabin.
“What about travel?”
“Not for several days.”
“Silverton?”
Ames lowered his voice.
“She became frightened when I mentioned town.”
“I know.”
“Do you know why?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Gideon frowned.
“Good?”
“Means you haven’t bullied her into telling you.”
Ames packed his bag.
“If she wants to tell someone, let her choose.”
“How much?”
“For what?”
“The visit.”
“Four dollars.”
Gideon took out money.
Ames stopped him.
“She paid me.”
“With what?”
“A silver brooch.”
Gideon’s jaw tightened.
“That could be worth twenty.”
“I know.”
“And you took it?”
“I gave her a receipt valuing it at four dollars and wrote that she can redeem it for the same amount whenever she chooses.”
Gideon stared.
Ames smiled.
“I also understand difficult women.”
“Apparently.”
That evening Lydia asked:
“Why were you following my tracks?”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were behind me.”
“I was tracking blood.”
She looked offended.
“I thought it was an elk.”
For the first time, she laughed.
A real laugh.
Short.
Unexpected.
“An elk.”
“Yes.”
“So your heroic rescue began because you wanted meat?”
“I never called it heroic.”
“Good.”
She looked at the fire.
Then became quiet.
“My husband used to hunt elk.”
Gideon waited.
“He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
That was not the answer he expected.
Lydia saw it.
“His name was Charles Mercer.”
Gideon knew the name.
Not personally.
But he had heard of Mercer Timber & Freight.
Small company.
Aggressive.
Recently expanding into mountain transport.
“Charles Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“Timber company?”
“His brother owns it now.”
“Jeremiah?”
Her face changed.
Gideon immediately understood enough to be careful.
“You don’t need to explain.”
“I know.”
She stared at the fire for a long time.
Then:
“Charles died nine months ago.”
“Accident?”
“Yes.”
That answer was firm.
No mystery.
No suspected murder.
A wagon overturned on an icy road outside Ouray.
Two men witnessed it.
Charles died before they could get him to a doctor.
“He left debts,” Lydia continued.
“How much?”
“That depends who you ask.”
“Who asks?”
“Jeremiah.”
Of course.
After Charles died, his older brother arrived with ledgers.
$612 owed to Mercer Timber.
$190 medical and burial expenses.
$86 freight losses.
Another $240 described as “family advances.”
More than Lydia could imagine paying.
“He said Charles had pledged our house.”
“Did he?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Did you sign anything?”
“No.”
“Was the house in Charles’s name?”
“Partly.”
“Partly?”
“My mother owned half.”
That interested Gideon.
“She left it to you?”
“Yes.”
“In writing?”
“I had a copy.”
“Had?”
Lydia looked at him.
“Jeremiah burned it.”
Gideon’s jaw tightened.
“You saw him?”
“Yes.”
“That seems useful.”
“For what?”
“Evidence.”
“He said it was only a copy.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Then the original may exist.”
Lydia shook her head.
“Not in the house.”
“County records?”
“Maybe.”
There it was.
Maybe.
A word far more useful than despair.
Jeremiah had moved into Lydia’s house three weeks after Charles died.
Not physically at first.
Administratively.
He took over accounts.
Collected rents from two rooms Charles had leased to railroad workers.
Sold two horses.
Told Lydia every dollar reduced the debt.
She asked for accounting.
He gave her totals.
Not records.
Then he presented a document.
Transfer her half-interest in the house to Mercer Timber.
In exchange, all family debt would be forgiven and Lydia could remain “under family protection.”
She refused.
“Then?”
“He said I was emotional.”
Gideon almost laughed.
“That word does a lot of work when women own property.”
Lydia looked at him.
“Your wife teach you that?”
“No wife.”
“Never?”
“Once.”
Her expression softened.
“Dead?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry.”
“So am I.”
They left it there.
Lydia continued.
Two weeks after refusing the transfer, she discovered her bedroom had been searched.
Then letters disappeared.
Then Jeremiah told neighbors Lydia was “not right since Charles died.”
A physician she had never met was supposedly willing to certify she should not manage property alone.
“That frightened you?”
“Yes.”
“Did he have authority?”
“I didn’t know.”
That was the danger.
Not only what Jeremiah could legally do.
What Lydia believed he could.
So she left.
At night.
With forty-three dollars hidden inside her boot.
And the only paper she had managed to keep.
She reached for her sewing bag.
From beneath thread and needles, she pulled a folded sheet.
Gideon read only after she handed it to him.
A tax receipt.
Property description.
Lot 7, Silverton.
Owner of record for tax purposes:
Lydia Mercer and Charles Mercer.
Gideon looked up.
“This is useful.”
“Is it proof?”
“Not enough by itself.”
Her shoulders sank.
“But it tells us where to look.”
“We?”
He stopped.
“Sorry.”
She looked at him.
“I mean you.”
“You can help me look.”
That was different.
Gideon nodded.
“Then we look.”
When Lydia could travel safely, she did not return to Silverton immediately.
Instead, she went to Cedar Ridge.
Gideon’s place.
Not his house.
The old foreman’s cottage half a mile from it.
He offered the room under written terms.
Eight dollars a month.
Meals separate.
No work requirement.
Lydia read the agreement.
“Why do you keep doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Writing everything down.”
Gideon leaned against the doorframe.
“My father kept promises in his head.”
“How did that go?”
“He remembered the ones owed to him better than the ones he made.”
Lydia almost smiled.
“So I prefer paper.”
She signed.
Then added:
Tenant may leave at any time without penalty.
Gideon read it.
“Fair.”
She looked surprised.
“No argument?”
“Were you hoping for one?”
“No.”
“Then disappointing day.”
Within a week, Lydia asked for work.
Not because Gideon required it.
Because she hated watching her money disappear.
“What can you do?”
“Accounts.”
Gideon laughed.
“What?”
“Apparently every woman I meet can keep books better than every man I employ.”
“Perhaps stop employing men who write numbers on feed sacks.”
His smile disappeared.
“How do you know about the feed sacks?”
“I saw one.”
“That was temporary.”
“It was dated May.”
He hired her.
Twenty-eight dollars a month.
Two afternoons weekly.
She insisted her housing remained a separate agreement.
Good.
The first month she found nothing scandalous.
One duplicate supply entry that had never actually been paid twice.
A $17 arithmetic error.
Three missing receipts that ranch hand Thomas Reed eventually located inside a boot.
Gideon looked at the boot.
“Why?”
Thomas shrugged.
“Dry place.”
Lydia said:
“You have cabinets.”
Thomas answered:
“Boot was closer.”
She stared at Gideon.
“You deserve poverty.”
He laughed.
Then the Silverton records arrived.
Gideon did not fetch them himself.
That mattered.
Lydia hired Attorney Margaret Shaw.
Independent.
Paid with part of her remaining savings.
Margaret requested county records.
Probate filings.
Property deeds.
Charles’s business agreements.
The results took weeks.
The house had indeed been partly Lydia’s.
Her mother, Anne Bell, had transferred a one-half interest directly to Lydia before Lydia married Charles.
Recorded.
The other half belonged to Charles.
Upon his death, that portion was subject to his estate.
Not automatically Jeremiah’s.
Not automatically Lydia’s either.
Probate mattered.
The alleged pledge of the entire house?
No recorded mortgage existed.
Then Margaret found a business note signed by Charles.
$410.
Not $612.
Secured by company equipment.
Not Lydia’s inherited half of the house.
Additional expenses might still be legitimate estate claims.
Burial costs.
Some freight losses.
A small medical account.
But the giant figure Jeremiah had presented was not supported by the documents they had found.
Lydia sat at Margaret’s desk staring at the papers.
“He lied.”
Margaret answered carefully.
“He made statements that are inconsistent with these records.”
“That’s lawyer for lied.”
“It’s lawyer for I prefer evidence.”
Lydia smiled despite herself.
The accounting took four months.
Jeremiah hired counsel.
Insisted Charles owed undocumented family advances.
Some probably existed.
Family businesses often ran on terrible recordkeeping.
But unsupported claims did not become liens merely because an older brother said so loudly.
More troubling was the rent.
Jeremiah had collected $138 from the railroad tenants after Charles’s death.
Some money paid taxes and repairs.
The remainder belonged to the estate and Lydia according to actual ownership interests, not to Jeremiah personally.
He also sold a horse that had belonged to the company, not Lydia.
That part was legitimate.
The second horse had been Lydia’s.
That was not.
The court eventually ordered a formal estate accounting and rejected the broad claim that Lydia’s inherited half-interest could simply be transferred to satisfy Charles’s company obligations.
No instant prison sentence.
No evil empire collapsing.
Paperwork.
Hearings.
Receipts.
Jeremiah’s credibility suffered because of inconsistent statements and his destruction of Lydia’s copy of her mother’s document.
But the recorded original mattered more.
Lydia kept her half of the house.
Charles’s half was handled through probate, with actual estate debts resolved before distribution.
Ultimately Lydia purchased an additional interest after other claims were settled.
Not free.
Not magical.
A negotiated resolution.
When the final documents were recorded, Margaret slid the certified copy toward her.
Lydia touched her name.
Then whispered:
“I left because I thought he could take all of it.”
Margaret said:
“He could have made your life very difficult.”
“That isn’t the same as owning it.”
“No.”
Lydia started crying.
“I wish I had known.”
“So do I.”
Gideon was waiting outside.
He did not ask:
Did we win?
He asked:
“What did you decide?”
That was why Lydia told him.
“The house stays partly mine.”
His face softened.
“Good.”
“I may sell it.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“You fought five months for it.”
“Yes.”
“And now you may sell it?”
“Yes.”
Gideon smiled.
“Excellent.”
She frowned.
“You think selling is excellent?”
“I think choosing is.”
That sentence followed her for years.
Lydia returned to Silverton once.
She walked through the house.
Touched the banister.
Opened the room where Charles had slept.
Found one of his old shirts behind a trunk.
Cried.
Then sold her interest eight months later.
Not because Gideon needed money.
Not because she wanted to erase Charles.
Because the house felt like a place where everyone else had already decided what she should do.
The sale proceeds became hers after obligations and costs were properly resolved.
She used part to purchase twelve acres outside Cedar Ridge.
A modest parcel.
Creek.
Small orchard.
Two-room house.
Gideon helped inspect the roof.
She paid him.
He objected.
She stared.
He accepted.
That pleased her.
Their friendship changed slowly.
Gideon had never behaved like a frontier hero.
He snored.
Argued with horses.
Forgot appointments.
Cooked eggs until they became weapons.
One evening he arrived carrying a sack of coffee.
Lydia looked at it.
“What?”
“You bought mine during the snowstorm.”
“I bought old coffee.”
“This is good coffee.”
“How much?”
“Gift.”
“No.”
“Lydia.”
“No hidden debts.”
His expression changed.
Then he nodded.
“Five cents.”
“That coffee costs a dollar.”
“Five cents.”
She put five cents in his palm.
“There.”
He looked at the coin.
“You are exhausting.”
“Yet you keep coming back.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
That was the first moment they both heard it.
Gideon looked toward the orchard.
Then:
“Would it bother you if I said why?”
“Yes.”
He blinked.
“Good night.”
She started laughing.
He laughed too.
Three months later, Lydia changed her answer.
“You can say why.”
Gideon was repairing a gate hinge.
He nearly dropped the hammer.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“I had prepared something better.”
“You had three months.”
“Pressure ruins me.”
She waited.
Finally:
“I like being near you.”
Her throat tightened.
“That’s it?”
“I can add livestock metaphors.”
“Don’t.”
“I like being near you even when there is no problem to solve.”
That mattered.
Because almost every relationship Lydia had known depended on usefulness.
Daughter.
Wife.
Bookkeeper.
Property holder.
Debtor.
Someone always needed something.
Gideon continued:
“I don’t want to offer marriage.”
“Good.”
His face fell slightly.
She smiled.
“Not yet.”
He recovered.
“May I court you?”
Lydia thought.
“Yes.”
The courtship lasted three years.
Not because either disliked the other.
Because Lydia wanted time.
And Gideon discovered that wanting someone did not entitle him to accelerate her certainty.
He continued paying her for ranch accounts.
She continued living on her own property.
When Cedar Ridge needed a new bookkeeper full-time, Lydia refused.
“Why?”
Gideon asked.
“Because I have six clients now.”
“You could make more here.”
“I don’t want one man to be my landlord, employer, and possible husband.”
He stared.
Then nodded.
“That is annoyingly sensible.”
She smiled.
“I learned from terrible people.”
Her business grew.
Ranch accounts.
Freight records.
Estate inventories.
Widows who had been told:
Don’t worry about the papers.
Lydia worried about the papers.
For money.
Gideon asked her to marry him when she was thirty-three.
Not at his ranch.
At her own kitchen table.
He brought a ring.
And two folders.
She laughed immediately.
“Romance.”
“Margaret helped.”
“Your attorney?”
“My attorney drafted my side.”
“And mine?”
“You hire your own.”
“Good.”
The proposed agreement kept Cedar Ridge as Gideon’s separate property.
Lydia’s twelve acres remained hers.
Her accounting business remained hers.
If she worked directly for Cedar Ridge after marriage, terms would be paid or ownership adjusted separately.
Neither automatically controlled the other’s inherited or premarital assets.
No expectation that Lydia sell her property.
No expectation she become housekeeper for ranch employees.
At the back was a handwritten page.
Lydia read it alone.
The first time I saw Lydia Mercer, I believed I was following a wounded elk.
Instead I found a woman holding a knife because she had learned that accepting help could be dangerous.
I sold her old beans for one dollar seventy-five because it was the only way she would let me keep her alive.
I used to think that was stubbornness.
I understand now that she was protecting the last thing she believed still belonged to her: the right to decide what she owed.
If Lydia marries me, I do not want payment for firewood, medical help, lodging, protection, friendship, or patience.
I am asking because I want the life that happens after every account between us is already settled.
Lydia read it twice.
Then Gideon called from the porch:
“Too long?”
“Yes.”
“I knew it.”
She opened the door.
His face was pale.
“Is that a no?”
“No.”
His expression fell.
She continued:
“That was not my answer.”
He stared.
Then she held out the contract.
“My attorney reviews this.”
“Of course.”
“And I keep the twelve acres.”
“Yes.”
“My clients.”
“Yes.”
“My name.”
“Yes.”
“My terrible coffee.”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Then yes.”
Gideon blinked.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her only after she reached for him.
They married the following autumn.
Lydia wore dark green.
No white veil.
No dramatic frontier transformation.
She remained Lydia Mercer professionally because every client already knew the name.
Some people objected.
Gideon did not.
They lived primarily at Cedar Ridge eventually.
Her twelve-acre place remained hers.
She rented the house to a schoolteacher and his wife.
Rent went into Lydia’s account.
Not because she expected divorce.
Because clear ownership was not evidence of weak love.
To them, it was evidence that love did not require financial fog.
They had no children.
For years, Lydia thought she wanted them.
Then later realized she wanted the possibility more than the reality.
Gideon admitted something similar.
“I think I wanted children because ranches are supposed to have sons.”
Lydia looked at him.
“That is an alarming reason to create a person.”
“I know.”
They laughed.
Their life filled anyway.
Nieces.
Neighbors.
Ranch hands.
Clients.
Two orphaned barn cats that Gideon pretended to dislike for thirteen years.
Lydia’s younger cousin came to live with them temporarily after her husband died.
Temporarily remained temporary.
That mattered too.
Helping someone did not require absorbing their entire life.
Jeremiah Mercer apologized once.
Eleven years after the dispute.
He came to Lydia’s office.
Older.
Gray.
Less certain.
“I thought Charles’s business should stay with the Mercer family.”
Lydia stared.
“I was a Mercer.”
“You married into it.”
“There it is.”
He looked ashamed.
“I thought you would sell everything.”
“I eventually sold the house.”
“I know.”
“You hated that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it felt like losing Charles.”
Lydia became quiet.
That was more human than she expected.
Then:
“You tried to preserve your brother by controlling his widow.”
Jeremiah nodded.
“Yes.”
“You destroyed my copy of Mother’s paper.”
“Yes.”
“You lied about what I owed.”
“I told myself the family advances were real.”
“Were they?”
“Some.”
“All?”
“No.”
That mattered.
Not absolution.
Truth.
Lydia said:
“I accept that you’re sorry.”
His eyes lifted.
“That doesn’t restore what we had.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
They never became close.
They also stopped being enemies.
Sometimes accountability produces reconciliation.
Sometimes it produces accurate distance.
Years later, Gideon would tell people he found Lydia alone in a mountain cabin and saved her from freezing.
Whenever he said it in front of her, she corrected him.
“You sold me beans.”
“I built the fire.”
“For one dollar seventy-five.”
“That price did not include fire service.”
“It should have.”
“Inflation.”
She would roll her eyes.
Then Gideon would grin.
The story became local legend anyway.
A mountain man follows blood through a November snowstorm.
Finds a mysterious woman dying alone in an abandoned cabin.
Brings her down from the mountain.
Discovers greedy relatives are stealing her inheritance.
Restores her home.
Marries her.
Saves her.
Lydia disliked that version.
